


The Two of Us in Sympathy (and sometimes ecstasy)

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Bickering, Bittersweet Ending, Body Worship, Crowley is forever edging himself, Going too fast or not fast enough, Hand Feeding, Historical Sex Club, Iddy Iddy Bang Bang 2019, M/M, No other way out of this situation at all, Oh no we have to make out in public, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Shamelessly iddy, Voyeurism, obviously, with implied post-story happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-12 23:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: The other kind of Gentleman’s Club. Crowley is hunting temptation and a serial killer. He doesn’t expect to find Aziraphale.“Gentleman, here is the new guest I promised," said Mr Inslip, and as the company politely rose Crowley looked up into the face of, not a Prince as he had expected, but a Principality. As golden and rounded and lustrous in this room of humans as a buttercup in a field of thorns.Crowley was glad he was slightly secluded in his recess, as it gave him a moment to recover himself and assess the situation. Crowley felt wildly that either Satan or the Almighty had heard his own desperate, unspoken prayers, because here was his angel, in one of these temples of lust.





	The Two of Us in Sympathy (and sometimes ecstasy)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia) in the [iibb2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/iibb2019) collection. 

> **Prompt:**Having to have physical contact in some semi-public place in history and being terrified the other one will be able to figure out just how genuinely into it they are. Guilt, pining, lots of wanting.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely scatteredmoonlight for a wonderful beta job.

####  Inslip’s Gentleman’s club, Fitzrovia, London, January 1889

Crowley sprawled on a couch in one of the recesses of the club, idly sipping brandy. Jack, who under the name of Miss Evelyne was the star of the club, was tinkling away on the piano, playing a quadrille, and men were pairing off. Crowley had no inclination to dance, and refused the gentlemen who approached him, sweetly suggesting they could get to know each other better after two in the morning, when the lights would go out.

None of the guests were particularly interesting tonight, and he had no interest in the “soldier boys” in their pretty dresses and uniforms. Many on both sides were married, but adultery in itself was not a sin that Crowley felt paid off well with Head Office, especially since by the time they were engaged by the brothel or had joined the club, they hardly needed his prodding to sin. Fornication and sodomy in themselves were hardly worth putting in reports in these modern days. What interested Crowley were the guests, the ones with power and influence and already hovering on the point of evil, and would only need a little push—say, a little blackmail and threat of exposure—to fall into the depths of evil.

He had heard that the Prince of Wales’s son might be in attendance tonight, which would have made it worthwhile. He had heard rumours of Prince Albert Victor, rumours far worse than any visits to a brothel. If they were true, if the prince were one of His, then it was worth investigating further. So far, though, all the attendees had been harmless wealthy gentlemen, not particularly depraved or powerful. They were there for the dancing and the orgy, for the semblance of love and not for any uglier purpose.

There was one more guest to be announced, and if they weren’t under the name Victoria, Crowley was going to risk irritating Mr. Inslip by throwing the numbers off and pleading a headache. He was bored senseless, and if he were going to waste his time getting drunk, he might as well do it in his own quarters, as getting pawed on and more by humans. Took less energy.

“Gentleman, here is the new guest I promised, Miss Arabella," said Mr. Inslip, and as the company politely rose Crowley looked up into the face of, not a Prince, but a Principality, as golden and rounded and lustrous in this room of humans as a buttercup in a field of snowdrops.

Crowley was glad that he was slightly secluded in his recess, as it gave him a moment to recover himself and assess the situation. Arabella—_ yielding to prayer. _ He had probably meant his own prayers, but Crowley felt wildly that either Satan or the Almighty had heard his own desperate, unspoken prayers, because here was his angel, in one of these temples of lust.

There was a slight flutter of nervousness in Aziraphale’s well-kept fingers, perhaps, but otherwise he was looking around with bright, inquisitive interest, at the gentlemen in suits and the soldiers in fine dresses and false braids, at the beautiful mirrors on the walls that gave the impression of light despite the heavily curtained windows, and, true to his passions, at the sumptuous refreshments laid out in the recesses.

Aziraphale clearly wasn’t here in order to preach the ways of chastity to the guests and hosts, then. Membership of this particular club was a hundred guineas, and then annual subscriptions and refreshments. No one, no one at all, ended up at Inslip’s by mistake, rather than by careful, tactful introduction and paying up to prove sincerity.

There was only one conclusion, and it didn’t take Crowley long to reach it. Delight filled him, as it did every time the angel did something unexpectedly wicked. To think he had been expecting to be _ bored _.

“Mr. Fell, allow me to introduce you to Miss Evelyne, our most beautiful and charming lady. She’ll look after you," Inslip said.

Jack rose from the piano stool and stepped forward to greet Aziraphale, but Crowley snapped his fingers and was between them with his own fingers wrapped around the angel’s before Jack had the chance. Jack was altogether too pretty, with his hair as auburn as Crowley’s and eyes as blue as Aziraphale’s and much younger and smoother looking under his paint than either, not to mention famously well-endowed. Crowley was suddenly determined that Jack was getting nowhere near Aziraphale if he could help it.

“Oh, Miss Cora,” Inslip said, a little surprised, although not as surprised as Aziraphale, who was staring at him with guilty shock, like a child caught sneaking a pie.

“Forgive me, Evvie my sweet love, but this one is all mine for tonight,” Crowley said firmly. 

Jack nodded amiably enough, although he raised an eyebrow to indicate that Crowley would owe him later. In any case, once the lights went out, anyone would be able to have any guest or host they wanted, in the odd democracy of this place. 

Crowley barely registered Jack’s response. 

Aziraphale was looking slightly frightened, and blushing, and his golden eyelashes were fluttering. By Satan, he looked simultaneously innocent and sinful enough that surely no demon could resist the desire to catch that trembling lower lip between their teeth, could prevent a surge of lust.

Later, Crowley told himself. That could wait. He needed to explore and enjoy this unexpected situation first.

“If it’s all right with you both,” Crowley hissed at Aziraphale, who nodded mutely, still a picture of frozen guilt. Crowley pulled him closer and wrapped an arm around his waist. Reassuringly, he told himself, not possessively.

Inslip nodded. Crowley was still a high paying and valuable guest, and while Crowley was sure he would be keeping an eye out to make sure the wealthy new guest wasn’t chased away, it was worth indulging him if he took a fancy to a guest rather than a host.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s waist, letting his fingers dig in just a little through the layers of jacket and waistcoat to feel yielding flesh. “Come on, _ Arabella _. No need to be so antsy. Come over here, and we'll have some refreshments and chat."

Aziraphale relaxed a little at the suggestion of a chat, or possibly at refreshments. “Antsy? I find your modern expressions a little confusing, sometimes."

“Like you have ants in your…” Crowley trailed off. 

Under the circumstances, it was impossible not to think about what else Aziraphale had in his pants, and it was crucial not to terrify him off before he had the chance to refresh his memories of it. It had been a long time since they had shared a culture with much public nudity, and his cold blood was fizzing at the thought of replacing cherished memories with new ones. Better new ones. Every secret desire he usually kept clamped carefully down in the angel’s presence was battering at his imagination, which was whispering that they might come true. Not tonight. Probably not tonight. He had to give Aziraphale a chance to deal with the idea. A long, long time, knowing Aziraphale. But they suddenly seemed possible.

“Like you’re nervous,” said Crowley. “Look, I’m not likely to report you to Head Office, am I? Stop looking like I’m about to bite your head off, and confide in a friendly demon what you’re doing in a place like this.”

He steered Aziraphale to his recess, and reluctantly let go to let Aziraphale take a prim seat on the edge. Aziraphale was peering curiously around again. Crowley didn’t want to disrupt his view of the proceedings. At the same time he didn’t want to take the opposite couch. He thought for a moment, then said brightly, “Excuse me,” and slithered across Aziraphale’s lap to the other side.

“_Really, _ Crowley,” Aziraphale said, turning pinker.

Crowley grinned lazily at him, sprawling across the couch and leaning against his arm. 

They were quiet for a moment, Crowley pouring drinks while Aziraphale looked around. Crowley enjoyed the sensation of being pressed intimately against the angel in a room that smelled of male desire and sex. He hadn’t experienced this since Pompeii, and there, Aziraphale had been pure and remote. This time, he was letting Crowley come into awfully close contact, and was there by choice. He hoped the angel couldn’t tell that he was trembling a little.

“You called Miss Evelyne your love,” Aziraphale said, watching an elderly lawyer type come behind Jack where he was seated at the piano, lift Jack’s skirt and feel underneath, while Jack squealed and pretended modest dismay, his clever fingers still playing at the keys. “Are you special friends?"

“Evvie—Jack—is a pal of mine, so much as any human is,” Crowley said, wondering—hoping—if there was some jealousy, if Aziraphale had assumed that Jack and he had been together at these soirees. If he was imagining it, right now. If he was jealous or… Crowley resisted the urge to look down. Take it slow. You didn’t want to make too many quick movements or you risked scaring off a dove before it pecked the seed from your hand. “Decadent little monster, but probably one of your lot for all that."

“I confess that, when Mr. Inslip told me there would be soldiers here to dance with, I wasn’t expecting so many of them to be wearing dresses.” Aziraphale spoke with guileless interest, no judgement or excitement or disappointment, as if it was an interesting new fashion in cravats.

“It’s generally the case here, if not at all the balls and soirees. Some of the guests find it arousing, and others find it makes it—well, easier. They don’t have to face what they really want so much if they tell themselves that these are ladies, even when sucking them off. It’s not easy for them.” He had allowed a note of sympathy to creep into his voice, and Aziraphale, never quite merciful enough on Crowley to ignore softness, gave him a sharp look.

“You’re sorry for them?"

Crowley shrugged. “They risk a lot to be here. That much desire, that much risk, that much temptation, is always going to be appealing to a demon.” Jack’s eyes had closed, his dance partner’s hands working frantically under the petticoat from front and behind. The two of them weren’t the only ones watching as Jack leaned forward, hands still skipping automatically over the keys, as the man’s fingers thrust inside and pulled at him.

“Which is, I suppose, precisely why you are here. To make sure they lose everything they risk.” Aziraphale was staring with fascination at the scene on the piano stool.

“I pick my targets well, angel. Only the ones who have one foot on the downslide already and just need a pebble kicked away. You know I believe in efficient effort, not mucking around with harmless souls. Here, it’s terribly hot in here, try this.” Crowley scooped up a large spoon of bergamot water ice from a goblet on the table, and pressed the spoon to Aziraphale’s pink lips. 

Despite his distraction, Aziraphale's mouth automatically opened, and took the ice from the spoon, sucking it off. He swallowed, eyes fluttering in bliss, just as Jack cried out his release, fingers slipping from the keys. Crowley hissed at the miraculous perfection of the timing, aware of his own hardness jerking.

“Scrumptious,” said Aziraphale faintly, which could have referred to the ice or the scene before him. Crowley was almost beside himself with the urge to push Aziraphale back against the couch and drink the remnants of the ice from his mouth, trying to make him cry out like Jack. Carefully, slowly, he told himself. Look how nervous he still is.

“All right. I’m here trying to meet the Prince of Wales’s son,” Crowley hissed. “Anything else is a bonus."

“Chasing Earthly royalty again, my dear boy?"

“I’m chasing what happened in Whitechapel,” Crowley said evenly.

“Oh. Those poor young ladies. Yes.” Aziraphale’s face fell. “Crowley, you’re not involved—"

The same old game. Suggest the worst, in order to be reassured, to find out that _ his _ demon couldn’t possibly be _ that _ bad, as if that meant he wasn’t bad at all. Crowley didn’t mind playing it, if it kept his angel close. “I have nothing to do with the murders,” he said, bringing the proper indignation into his tone. “That’s purely human vileness. But you have to admit whoever did it has a soul ripe for Hell. Wouldn’t want to risk him suddenly finding religion and reforming."

“You’re going to kill him?” Aziraphale said, with anxious disapproval.

Crowley just gave his most snakelike smile.

“Well, as long as you’re careful. If it _ is _ the Prince, killing royalty is an invitation to discorporation. Or imprisonment, and that will give me _ so _ much trouble with Michael if I have to fish you out.”

“I’m always careful,” Crowley said, reflecting that lies were sinful anyway, even when not directed to an angel, so he might as well earn back any points hunting down serial killers would lose him. That was the problem with his job, hanging around with the criminal classes meant it was hard not to make friends with denizens of the night, if you liked humans at all—which he probably shouldn’t. And then you felt some responsibility for them when some human bastard went around mutilating and killing them.

He needed to change the subject. "Take off your jacket, angel, you must be roasting.” 

To his faint surprise, Aziraphale let him help him out of it, placing it carefully on the couch opposite, and even loosen his cravat and his top button with fingers that, for all his determined air of worldly self-possession, shook.

In his waistcoat and shirt sleeves, Aziraphale smiled at him with as much sunny gratitude as if he’d actually done him a favour, not just stripped the first layer from him. “Thank you, dear."

The elderly gentleman took Jack’s hand and led him tenderly to a recess. They passed by them, and they could hear Jack’s partner praising him, _ my sweet Evelyne, my angel,_ and Jack echoing back fondly, _ my dear, my love_. Crowley shuddered again at the choice of endearments, and pressed his nose briefly against Aziraphale’s exposed neck, imagining… oh, soon. Surely, soon. He could feel the heat of the angel’s skin, fancied he could hear the quick pulse in his throat.

“That’s rather nice,” Aziraphale said softheartedly, his eyes shining. Crowley’s heart flopped over at the sight. “I expected something rather less affectionate."

“Some of the lads here are quite kind, especially with the regulars,” Crowley admitted. 

He sat up a little, spooning another heap of ice, parmesan cheese creamed ice this time, into Aziraphale’s mouth. This time Aziraphale turned and looked at him as he parted his lips, and oh, he hadn’t fed him by hand since it was the custom in Ethiopia so many years ago. Why hadn’t he found a reason to do so before? Those sweet lips parting obediently and willingly, the bright anticipation in those blue eyes, and the burning image of Aziraphale opening his mouth with equal delight to take in something else—well, if he was honest with himself, that was exactly why. Those desires had been stamped down on and hidden, only allowed to surface when alone, or painting a certain face and body on other lovers. But Aziraphale was here, on the couch beside him, and he was aching with longing.

“They call what they do larks and treat their gentlemen well,” said Crowley. “Some of the molly-houses, well, you don’t want to go there, angel. Nasty places. Inslip is very particular—only willing soldiers to please the gentleman, no one too young, and no one in genuine need or forced. Everyone at his soirees is here by choice, even if half pay through the nose to be here and some of them take a fiver home. You’ve picked almost a virtuous club. _ Almost _.” Crowley grinned lasciviously. “If you disregard all the frigging and garamouching and the lights out orgy."

Aziraphale flushed, so prettily, from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears to his lovely soft neck. “The orgy?"

“You say that as if you’ve never been to one. About two in the morning, the lights go off for four hours, and the game is on. No refusals, no favour, move from partner to partner in the dark. If you don’t want to be had by every man in the room, my gorgeous golden angel, I suggest you leave by then."

“I’ve never _ participated _ in one, at least to that extent,” said Aziraphale, ignoring the flattery. "I’m not sure I want to."

“So why are you in this modern Babylon? I’ve told you my motives—I can be even more explicit, if you like. I’m hunting a Prince with rumoured evil tendencies. Your turn, angel."

“Curiosity, my dear.” Aziraphale sighed ruefully. “I admit I’ve indulged in a lot of earthly pleasures, but this particular one I’ve always steered away from. Too messy, physically and emotionally. But a gentleman at my dancing club was _ very _ insistent, and I thought I would at least come and look around."

Crowley laughed at him, delighted—and a little relieved. Just like his angel to come to a notorious den of iniquity to look around. Always getting himself in trouble.

“He was probably hoping to find an excuse to get into your trousers,” he said jealously. “Not that I can blame him. Have I ever told you, angel, just how beautifully your thighs fill out your trousers? Not as beautifully as they used to fill out hose, mind you. Oh, I will never forget the sight of you in silk nether hose."

“No, and it would be a most improper thing for an enemy to tell me,” Aziraphale said, with utterly adorable priggishness. It took all of Crowley’s self-control not to kiss the life out of him. “Please don’t tease me."

“No enemies here, angel. And have you thought about where we are? It would be remiss of me not to tell you just how splendidly these fashions suit your equally splendid figure.” Crowley let his fingers play with the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “No wonder your friends try to seduce you,” he added meaningfully.

Aziraphale hummed, and Crowley was at a loss to know what it meant. “Why wouldn’t he just approach me directly?"

“He’s probably not bricky enough to lift an unworthy finger to a radiant demigod as bang up to the elephant as you are, unless he knows you’re definitely up for a balsamic injection."

“Sometimes I suspect you just make idioms up to confuse me."

“Is your amorous chum here?” Crowley asked, grinning maliciously. It was merely fair punishment for the incomprehensible humming.

Aziraphale pouted at him, then looked around and fluttered his immaculate fingers to one of the revellers. Of _course,_ it was that tall, handsome dark gent looking at them with a kind of anxious agony, quite ignoring poor Laura, or whatever his name was, who was hanging hopefully off his arm. Nora, he went by in the club. Far too good looking, and intelligent looking as well.

“I’m afraid he’s quite besotted,” Crowley whispered, leaning close in to Aziraphale’s ear. “Or is that your intention, playing with human hearts?"

“Of course not! Oh, dear, how dreadful. I was just _ curious. _ I mean, even if I—tried—I didn’t mean it _ seriously. _"

“Aziraphale, my wide-eyed darling, you shouldn't come to a place like this out of _ curiosity. _ What did you mean, tried? You mean, you were considering trying fornication?”

“More like making love,” Aziraphale said reproachfully. “I’m an _ angel_."

“Making love? Ah, so you do love him?"

“Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, I was just curious, I wanted to watch and see what all the fuss was about. Oh, I should go home before I make it worse."

“Not too quickly,” Crowley said, sharply. “Aziraphale, you know what kind of place this is. They let you in because they trust you. Do you know what they risk in the way of blackmail and exposure to be here? If you panic and leave without compromising yourself, then you will become a threat."

He hoped to see helplessness and a plea for rescue. Instead Aziraphale chuckled. “Goodness, what do you suppose a group of humans could do to poor little me?” Aziraphale arched an ironic eyebrow, and Crowley, who didn’t feel like he could melt any further than he had already, proved himself wrong.

Sometimes, it was more effective to use truth than deceit. “They could live in terror that you would expose them,” he said bluntly. “They could suffer deeply."

“Oh, _ dear. _ ” And there it was at last, that pleading, round-eyed gaze, the quivering lashes. _ Oh help, I’ve walked into a situation that is painful and difficult, is there a big bad demon to save me the trouble of getting myself out of it? _

Crowley supposed he should be annoyed, but he never, ever could resist. After all, after millennia of being willing to do absolutely anything for his angel, it was too late to change things now. When Aziraphale needed a demon, there was always one ready to lay down his life or his dignity for him, and that was just the way it had always been.

“I’ll tell them I’m taking you home with me,” Crowley offered generously. “That should ease their fears."

“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale said happily, and oh, it was ridiculous that even through his haze of physical arousal Crowley could be shattered by the sunshine in his expression, overwhelmed with tenderness. “But would they believe it?"

“That’s really up to you,” Crowley breathed. “How convincing do you want to be?” He scooped up another mouthful of ice. “Here, angel. Let me tempt you to this one.” He smiled back at Aziraphale. “It’s _apple. _ ” He licked it off the spoon himself, lowering his lashes, a demon learning temptation from an angel who had always, Crowley suspected, been better at it himself. Although, really all Aziraphale had to do was _exist._

He had really only meant to tease, and to put ideas into Aziraphale’s head for the future, but: “I never could resist knowledge of any kind, serpent,” Aziraphale admitted. Suddenly, miraculously, his hands were on Crowley’s shoulders and his mouth was on Crowley’s lips.

In all the countless times Crowley had imagined kissing the angel, and never once believed it would happen, it had never been Aziraphale who initiated, and he had never imagined lips cold with ice. For a moment he froze, shocked, and felt Aziraphale tense. Aziraphale was going to decide he misread the situation, was going to draw back and apologise, and Crowley couldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t… He wound possessive hands at the back of Aziraphale’s head, crushed their faces even closer, opened his mouth and pulled Aziraphale’s lips between his, tasting sweet brandy, not daring to push deeper, floating on soft clouds and behind them the darker, desperate urging of desire.

Aziraphale pulled away slightly. “Do you think that was convincing?” He was rosy and flustered, eyes bright, cravat askew, lips parted and wet, like something out of a dream.

“Ah, mm, err,” was Crowley’s careful evaluation, as he pulled Aziraphale back and kissed him again, pulling at his lips over and over this time, tongues just touching with each kiss, each soft sugar-sweet swipe sending bolts of pleasure through him. 

Oh, Existence, this was supposed to be a careful, slow seduction. A minor temptation that would lead to more later. Instead, he felt like he was laid bare, all his long wanting and hopeless love and consuming greed in every kiss, every hiss that escaped him. Just a shadowy, crawling snake impossibly wanting a golden angel to love and lust after him, not to just kiss an ally to get out of an awkward situation in an expensive brothel. He was in an agony of bliss, not _ the _ agony of bliss, but closer than he liked to think.

If he went too far, if, oh damnation, he actually got off on kissing, Aziraphale was going to get angry and pull away just like after their last spat, and Crowley could not bear it. He forced himself to still his kisses, and pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, breathing him in, his warmth and his pure clean scent with the hint of perspiration, snake tongue flickering out despite himself to taste the air and draw the scent further in, memorising it. _ This is what Aziraphale smells like when he’s just been kissed. _ If it never happened again, he needed the memory to cherish for all of his long existence.

“I think that’s quite convincing,” said Aziraphale gravely, and Crowley began to laugh hysterically. No, giggle. He was giggling like Jack or Laura in their most coy attitude, and it was ridiculous, he was a fucking _demon,_ but he couldn’t control himself.

“Oh, Crowley,” sighed Aziraphale, wrapping his arms around him and drawing him close. “I’m sorry. I should have known better. I know how fragile you are."

“Fragile? I’m a _demon._ I defied God, I destroy humans, I brought evil into this planet personally, I am not _ fragile _."

“Highly strung as a harp, then, my dear.” He was looking amused and indulgent, the bastard, as if Crowley being half-destroyed in his arms was just a rather charming joke.

“Harps are your business, pitchforks are mine.” Crowley glared at him. “To stick annoying angels."

“Oh, yes, you seem very dangerous right now.” Aziraphale smirked.

“I’m a serpent. _ The _ Ssserpent.” He was deliberately hissing.

“Very highly strung animals, I’ve always thought, snakes. Cagey and defensive."

_ "Dangerousss. _"

“Only if you bite."

“Oh, I can bite.” Crowley raised an eyebrow above his glasses. “And we’re pretty dangerous when we wind ourselves around you.” His arms and legs wound around Aziraphale and he pulled him back on top of him on the couch, before he could think better of it, laughing teasingly up at him.

Aziraphale laughed back down at him, sunshine and sweetness, and perhaps Crowley should resent that Aziraphale felt no fear of him. He was one of the Fallen after all. But they both knew from Eden that the worst harm Crowley could do to Aziraphale was hurt his feelings and then be sulkily sorry about it.

“That’s convincing, dear."

“I think so. Think your friend has given up,” he said. “Or is occupying himself with Laura until lights out, then he will be feeling for the most voluptuous posterior in trousers he can find. It’s going to be you or Sophronia, since Millie is in skirts tonight."

“I suppose you should save my virtue by taking me home, then,” Aziraphale said, innocently enough, but Crowley was already aroused and had been _ kissed _ and was surrounded by the sounds and scents of sex and had his arms and legs around his angel, his solid plump weight on him. The sound that was torn from his throat as he imagined taking Aziraphale home, _ really _ taking him home and back to bed, sounded half like a snake’s hiss and half like _ Gnuh_.

Aziraphale’s pretty eyes widened. “Ah, Crowley, are you…” 

Crowley desperately tried to wriggle away, and only succeeded entwining their legs and bringing the hard and somewhat damp evidence of his state against a plush hip. Worse, he made that sound again.

“Sorry."

“No, it’s quite all right. It’s quite natural for bodies in these shapes, after all,” Aziraphale said, his voice thoughtful. “After all, I’m sure you’ve done more to keep your place here than a few chaste kisses. Why should it be any different with me?"

Questions warred in Crowley’s head. First of all, _ chaste _ kisses, what the hell did Aziraphale do in his own regular club that he thought those kinds of kisses between male shaped beings were _chaste,_ and secondly what was that look of gentle curiosity, and thirdly what the hell did Aziraphale mean it wouldn’t be different with him?

The third thought won out. “Of _course,_ it’s different, you idiot angel. It’s _ you, _ and you’re—“ My one true friend, my obsession, my everything, my beloved, my own— “Beyond compare.” Oh, that was bad enough. What had possessed him to say that?

Aziraphale turned deeply red. “I suppose you wouldn’t want to—oh, never mind.” He started to try and untangle his legs.

“Wait, finish that question,” Crowley said urgently. “And the answer is yes."

“But you don’t know the question."

“_ Yes_.” He pulled Aziraphale’s cream and pink face down and kissed his chin, his jaw, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, sparing a thought to be grateful that Aziraphale had for once kept up wth fashion enough to get rid of his sideburns. “Yes, yes, yes, my angel, a thousand times, anything you want."

“I didn’t think you were particularly fond of ices."

“Oh, you ethereal _ bastard. _” Aziraphale was chuckling down at him. “Yes, I’ll get you more ices if you like. I’ll feed you enough ices to freeze over the Gobi Desert."

“Later.” Aziraphale stroked his hair, and then ran a finger down Crowley’s jaw. “I admit to curiosity, but don’t want to risk accidental adultery, or messy entanglements with humans. You know how they… attach."

_ There would clearly be no messy entanglements with a demon, just lust._ _It’s not like demons are capable of real affection_. The thought cut through Crowley’s heart like an unexpected slash from an animal’s claws. A male platypus, Crowley thought wildly. They were sleek and plump and adorable and had venom in their spurs that left excruciating pain in their wake. One of the Almighty’s little jokes.

And he would still cling, and take what he could get and hide the pain until it faded, because _ Aziraphale. _

He opened his mouth to say something dazzling and sensual and romantic that his angel would remember forever, and what came out was, “You are my platypus."

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Crowley, of all the odd things to compare me to. I am nothing like a platypus. I don’t like swimming. I really don’t even like Australia."

“Shut up,” Crowley said, and kissed him, fully open-mouthed this time, sliding his tongue against his, grinding up against him. His mouth was so warm, now, the ice kissed away, all angelic heat, and, oh _Satan,_ what he wouldn't give to have that heat wrapped around him.

He was going to lose control if he didn’t stop. Highly strung, yes. So highly strung he could snap at any moment, and there was no way he was ruining this and his trousers from a few kisses. He needed to make it good, make it perfect. He wanted to love and caress and _ wreck _ his angel, ruin him for any human lover, break him sweetly apart and put him back together and prove him wrong, prove they were already entangled beyond untangling, make him _ his. _

He fumbled with Aziraphale’s waistcoat, wanting to see and feel skin, impatient from having to do things the human way, but there were no curtains to close the recess, and he couldn’t risk magic. 

Aziraphale stilled Crowley’s fingers with his own and sat back on his knees, unbuttoning with more steady fingers. “This is what you wanted?"

“Yes. And your shirt.” Crowley’s voice was shaking as he reached up and unwound Aziraphale’s cravat, the silk slippery under his fingers, and impulsively brought the cravat back to cradle against his own cheek, breathing in the scent of angel as he took the chance to calm himself down and move back from the verge.

Aziraphale hesitated. “I don’t want to undress here.” 

There was an uncomfortable wriggle of the back he was keeping turned to the room. Crowley hoped the other men were too occupied with their own amusements to care much, but there was always the chance some were watching, and it clearly bothered Aziraphale more than it bothered him.

“It’s all right, love. Just unbutton for me?” There was a fascination in watching the deft fingers working buttons through holes, to reveal… Crowley began to laugh despite himself. Altogether too damn many layers, that was what it revealed. This _ century_. What he wouldn’t give for togas again, which for all their miles of fabric were at least easily pushed out of the way. Though, despite all these layers being inconvenient, there was a certain charm to it, watching as Aziraphale was unwrapped like a parcel.

“I suppose you want me to unbutton my vest, too,” Aziraphale said, sounding put upon.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Crowley said, just in case the Aziraphale was truly reluctant and not just pouting for the sake of it. "But I want to touch you."

Aziraphale drew in a breath sharply, seeming startled for once, and the fastenings fell quickly open under his fingers.

“There, you pulchritudinous creature, I’ve missed seeing you.” Crowley reached up and splayed his hands on his chest, luxuriating in soft padded skin, the dusting of golden hair. “When did the English stop bathing together?"

“Have you been oversleeping again? There are Turkish baths in swimming complexes all over London.” Aziraphale was shivering under the touch, as Crowley moved his hands slowly, but his voice was still pleasant and casual.

“Then we must make engagements to bathe,” Crowley said. 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to warm skin, dragging his teeth very gently, and swiping soothingly with his tongue to follow. He let his arms curve under the layers of clothes to hold Aziraphale warmly around his back, hands tucked possessively under his clothes. Somehow this felt even more intimate than complete nakedness, as if the embrace was a precious secret. He kissed and mouthed, finding one nipple and then another, every tremor of the body in his arms making him shake, too. He made his way up to the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat, kissing lingeringly.

“Angel,” he sighed, and pulled him down again over him for another open-mouthed, longing kiss. He could feel his demon nature welling up, all the dark desires of wanting to mark and possess and _ have _ —to have Aziraphale in all ways, right here, in this club, where he would be exposed in his sinfulness, an angel being fucked by a demon in full view of humans. But at the same time some of his angelic nature must have survived because protectiveness was welling up, too. Aziraphale would _ hate _ that his first time being thoroughly loved had been turned into a cheap spectacle in a club; he would be guilty and regretful. It wasn’t the sex that made you Fall. No, it was the _ guilt _ and the feeling of having sinned.

It could be love, even with this much lust. It could be _safe,_ as safe as possible for the angel. But not in a brothel.

He pressed a hand between their lips, his heart surging at how red Aziraphale’s cheeks were, how bright his eyes, how soft his lips from kissing. “See you home?” he whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale nodded mutely, sitting up.

He dragged himself away from the too enticing sight of Aziraphale slowly putting himself back together, buttoning all those tiny buttons, to bid goodnight to Mr. Inslip.

“Found yourself a rich husband at last?” Mr. Inslip asked ironically. Crowley shrugged. “Can’t blame you. You never seemed vulnerable to picking up a pretty leech. Better off with one of your own age and class. Still, if it doesn’t work out, you’re welcome back any time."

“I’ve found my own angel. I won’t be back,” Crowley said, and meant it. Whatever else happened, this little game was over for him. All the fun of it had left the moment he held Aziraphale in his arms. He took a minute to kiss Jack's cheek goodbye for good, slipping him a tiny blessing. After all, he probably owed the angel a boatload of gratis blessings, he told himself.

Aziraphale was quiet as he padded closer, his clothes buttoned and cravat perfect. Crowley slid his arm possessively through Aziraphale’s elbow and bore him off in triumph to where his brougham and driver waited.

Aziraphale was silent once ensconced in Crowley’s brougham—in dreamy anticipation, Crowley devoutly, or at least impiously, hoped. Although, he was probably still quite shocked, poor darling. He stared at the window, his hands still on his lap. Crowley repressed the urge to babble and chatter at him, fearful of the humiliating tendernesses that might flow out, and watched him instead, pressing his thigh against the plump one at his side, letting his thoughts play over and over, _ Mine, my own, mine at last. _ The angel was his. He had never truly dared think it would happen. Here he was, by his side.

At the shop, he followed Aziraphale to the door and clicked his fingers for a moment’s safety, so that no human could see. He wrapped his arms tight around Aziraphale’s generous waist and pressed close, his face against his cheek.

“Invite me in, angel,” he breathed, loving and confident.

“And then what?” Aziraphale’s voice was high and shaking with emotion. It made Crowley’s heart soar. Oh, his sweet, his darling angel.

“Anything you like. Anything and everything.” He planted adoring possessive kisses on his cheek.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my dear."

Crowley froze, his lips still against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Angel, why—"

“It was lovely of you to satisfy my curiosity."

What kind of thing was that to say? “I’ll satisfy a lot more than that.” Crowley’s voice was suddenly hoarse and painful. “My darling—"

“None of that.” Aziraphale’s own voice was sharp. “It’s best we stop here and not speak of this again."

“You can’t mean that."

“It’s an unacceptable risk for us both, my dear fellow. I—it meant a lot. But it's best we don’t speak of it again."

“_Angel _.” But Aziraphale was through the door so fast that Crowley wondered if he had started time again just for himself, leaving him frozen. He snapped his fingers, trying to open the door, but it remained closed against him. He suspected that nothing demonic would open it again.

“Angel,” he said again, flatly. The lump in his throat could be tears, or vomit, or ice. Or maybe a broken heart trying to escape.

It took a fortnight, fourteen sodding days of lying in his bed not eating or drinking or sleeping. Fourteen sodding nights of forcing himself to patrol Whitechapel and check that none of his girls who walked the streets had been eviscerated. He put out the word that something dark and powerful was protecting them and stalked the street, brooding. He turned pain and lust and betrayal and painfully bright memories over in his head, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong, before Crowley started to do anything like think again.

Half of the time he told himself he was glad he hadn’t said anything too humiliating about love or desire. Of course, he was pretty sure he had called Aziraphale his platypus, but at least he hadn’t said anything _ truly _ embarrassing like _ I love you _ or _ I need you _ or _ please, never leave. _ The other half of the time he imagined himself saying just those things, and having warm bright eyes explode with sunshine as words of love were returned. Perhaps if he only hadn’t been a coward, if only he hadn’t tried to go too slow, if only he’d _ said_...

It was hard to think when his mind was bombarded with memories of the way Aziraphale had looked at him between kisses. Love, surely, surely that had been love and not just sensuality. So why… why...

And then, with a moment of clarity, he recognised the sharpness in Aziraphale’s voice. Recognised it from a hundred different times the angel had drawn back from him.

Real, deep, powerful fear. For _ Crowley_. Because where they were headed was a bit more dangerous than a few scattered exchanged temptations and blessings.

Crowley wasn’t afraid of angels, particularly—they had already done all they could to punish his earlier errors. His own lot were a different matter. They took pleasure in unpleasantness, and he had been spending centuries sharing with them notes on human tortures, which seemed now to have been a less than sensible idea.

He needed a plan. Because now he was sure, almost sure, that the angel felt the way he did, and Crowley would fight anything for that. He would win his angel back, and he would keep him, and bloody _ protect _ him. No matter how many centuries it took.

He began to think once more about holy water. If Aziraphale couldn’t or wouldn’t furnish him with it, then he would need his own plan.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Fitzrovia is the district in which the Cleveland Street male brothel scandal happened.
> 
> 2) Prince Albert Victor was linked by rumour both with the Cleveland Street brothel and with Jack the Ripper. The “canonical" murders stopped at the end of 1888.
> 
> 3) Visitors, both the sex workers and the patrons, in these clubs generally used female pseudonyms.
> 
> 3) A lot of the details of the club were taken from the confessional novel _ Sins of the Cities of the Plain,_ attributed to the famous sex worker Jack Saul, who had beautiful auburn hair, apparently. (This is not really a recommendation. Like most Victorian porn, it is filled with child abuse, racism, and rapiness and pretty damn unpleasant at times. But it remains the best source I could find on Victorian male sex work.)
> 
> 4) In reference to the above, please give me points for never referring to Crowley or Aziraphale’s well-furnished implements of love.
> 
> ####    



End file.
